I killed a dream

I smothered it

I broke the arrow inside of it
(the arrow that I did not shoot)

Its poisoned head sits in flesh

releasing silently

grains of death

I sing to the dream

I sing like a mother

who lulls her child

to sleep in smiles

with promises of infinite bliss

of food and toys

of clothes and rides

of strength and health

of gold and wealth

and most above

of new tomorrows

But my hand that pats and caresses

is a cretin’s rosary

that allays nothing

and my dream that lays

lays not to sleep

but to die

and the song that I sing

is a requiem

not a lullaby

and this poem that I write

is an obituary





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This article has 2 comments

  1. passive-aggressive Reply

    “Isn’t it time that, loving, we freed ourselves
    from the beloved, and, trembling, endured:
    as the arrow endures the bow, so as to be,
    in its flight, something more than itself?”

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